King Snake Roost
Things That Play Themselves

THE REVIEW

Guitars that never stop, inhuman distortions, walls of noise, and dark almost tribal rhythms, a rolling bass, a perpetually angry hoarse voice, and more noise, fragments of punk, violence. But it’s not inflicted violence, it’s suffered violence, just a way to vent the chaos and destruction that can be inside any twenty-year-old Australian guy.

Noise, post-punk, garage, as creative as few, as degenerate as Tragic Mulatto but more serious, as disorienting as No Trend, with horns disturbing as if it were free-jazz.

Australia then, Adelaide to be precise in 1985, a short career until 1990, but enough time to release three great albums and play alongside Sonic Youth, Big Black, Mudhoney, Helmet, Babes In Toyland, Lubricated Goat, feedtime, and The Mark of Cain. King Snake Roost are ruthless, they bombard your ears and mind, they are therapy against every repressed feeling, better than hammering a car to pieces.

The guitars are blades, slicing through every thought, and blood drips from every note, it’s hard to hear music so compelling and full of rage.

After each track, you’ll be exhausted, crushed, and it will be hard to believe that God exists. It's chaos that fills you, expands your mind, and leaves you empty and alone at the end of the album. It’s an expression of sick minds, a possible soundtrack for "Spell-Dolce Mattatoio". It’s one of those records not to be listened to in company because it generates mutual hatred. But worth listening to absolutely because it's rare to feel emotions so intensely.

Apocalyptic like Pere Ubu, their music is a modern dance for kids who don’t know where to go, who want something and want it now, but don’t know what. It’s music born of its time, expressing the impatience with contemporary life, but what to do if not scream all this and reject every form of normalcy?